


Close the Door

by House_of_Ares, vampirekilmer



Series: Pandora's Music Box [2]
Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Avoid spraying directly on food, BDSM, Biting, Collars, Do not expose to heat or light, Exhibitionism, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Keep out of reach of children and pets, M/M, Pole Dancing, Sex Work Roleplay, The Nic and Vamp Show, spoilers in the tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-11
Updated: 2013-01-11
Packaged: 2017-11-25 02:47:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/634306
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/House_of_Ares/pseuds/House_of_Ares, https://archiveofourown.org/users/vampirekilmer/pseuds/vampirekilmer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Don’t know, I’m sure you’ll think of some way to tip me.”</p><p>“I'll bet I can.” He takes a sip of his scotch, making it last. “Give me a reason.”</p><p>Clint chuckles. “Oh, I’ll give you more than that.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close the Door

**Author's Note:**

> So no shit, there we were 75k & knee-deep into writing our second epic, and we simultaneously hit burn out. No more angst, no more vast character development, no more ridiculously complicated plots. Just writer’s block that would make Shakespeare a little batty.
> 
> Naturally the best response to this is to write mindless smut.
> 
> Thanks to [Sinope](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Sinope/pseuds/Sinope) for being our beta; the title comes from Spencer Day’s song “Close the Door”.

Phil sees Barton head out the door; he hardly gets a wave before the archer is gone, just a chin-tilt and half a glance.  
He takes the elevator up to the common area to ask one of the others if they got a call; Banner's the only one around, placidly making some kind of stir-fry.  
  
“Where did...” He trails off when he sees it on the table.  
  
“.....Where did what?”  
  
“Nothing, I found it,” he says, regarding the item blankly. “Kind of.”  
  
The collar is lying there, the soft leather already getting a bit of a dent from the roller-buckle although it's a damn sight better than the old one. Paired with Barton's sudden departure, Phil knows exactly what it is – an invitation for a chase.  
  
He snatches it up and tucks it in his pocket.  
  
“Have a lovely evening, Dr. Banner,” he says with a small smile, and heads back to the elevators.  
  
==========  
  
Clint leans back against the cold brushed steel of the elevator wall and puts his earbuds in, silencing his phone and bringing up the music app. Of course JARVIS is fully capable of overriding any and all user settings in the event of the Avengers being needed somewhere, but he doesn’t let himself think about that as he scrolls through to the jazz playlist.  
  
Some Timberlake remix cues up first and he tilts his head back, eyes closed and breathing deep as he mentally works the knots of tension from around his spine. It’s been several weeks since Coulson found him dancing at Cielo, caged up and let loose in a way that had the senior agent chomping at the bit to sink his teeth in -- and boy had he ever.  
  
That first night had been little more than a prelude to what would become one hell of a relationship. At work they were a well oiled machine; clean, efficient, precise, and deadly. After hours and behind mostly closed doors they were a whole lot less clean, with a whole lot more oil. As good as it was, both the sex and their relationship, it still didn’t compensate for that itch to lose himself in the heat and bass of the club.  
  
There’s a twinge of disappointment when he takes a hard left in the lobby of the tower and heads for the parking garage; he can see the reflection of the elevator bank behind him in the huge plate glass windows that front the building, but there is no sign of Phil following him out tonight despite the blatant invitation. Que sera and all that crap, he thinks, pulling the strap of his backpack a little higher on his shoulder and stepping outside.  
  
He heads for the short sets of stairs that lead to the side street, but a shadow of movement on the wall in front of him has Clint spinning around, hand instinctively going to the small of his back and the holster of throwing knives that’s laced to his backpack.  
  
“Care for a ride?” Natasha asks, leather jacket already on and one hip leaning against the gas tank of the bike Bruce (by way of Tony) had gifted her with just a couple weeks before.  
  
Clint forces his hand to relax and takes a full breath before pulling the earbuds out and kills the song playing on the phone. “You headed my way?” He’s a bit skeptical that she knows for sure where he is going, but isn’t dumb enough to discount the possibility entirely.  
  
“I’ll drop you at the pub to change,” she says with a smile and a glint in her eyes, tossing him the spare helmet before climbing on the Paginale, and Clint catches it.  It doesn’t have the same custom black and red pinstripe color scheme as the bike and Natasha’s riding gear; it’s the same high-gloss black helmet, but the crimson accents have been replaced with his preferred dark purple.  
  
“You can thank DUM-E and JARVIS later for the modified paint job.” He looks up at her and grins as another layer of tension slips from across his shoulders as he walks over to stand beside her.  
  
“Thanks,” he says, pressing a kiss to Tasha’s cheek before pulling the helmet and climbing on behind her.  
  
==========  
  
Stark had brought the collar the morning after they came in at damned near noon. It was simple – butter-soft chocolate leather and metal. But Stark, true to form, had to brag.  
  
 _“Vibranium buckle,” he said, smirking at Coulson. “I thought you'd appreciate that. The nameplate, too.”_  
  
 _The plate just said Hawkeye but there were tiny rivets holding it to the leather. “All laser-cut, I saved the CNC file so I could crank these puppies out if you need me to.” Barton just stared at Stark; Phil couldn't read a single emotion on his face._  
  
 _“Morocco leather. I had extra from when I had them re-upholster the T57. You need a leash? I can knock out a leash by this evening.”_  
  
 _“Won't be necessary, Stark, thank you,” Phil said drily._  
  
 _“Just saying. If you feel the need.”_  
  
 _“Thank you,” he said again. Barton had given Stark a death glare._  
  
That being said, when Phil put the collar on him that night, Barton had looked up at him with an adoration that must've been idolatrous.  
  
Clint is long gone by the time he gets downstairs. Phil hails a cab and gives the coordinates to the Sikh driving; he sits in silence, listening to the radio program in Punjabi and staring out the window. Ten minutes into the drive, the guy on the radio is apparently trying to be funny, and Phil rustily drags out “ _I think any Punjabi shopkeeper would call that a terrible deal_.”  
  
The cabbie stares at him in the rearview and cracks up, unleashing a torrent of words Phil can't keep up with.  
  
“ _Mehnu samajh nehi ahndi_ , sorry, I haven't spoken in years, really,” he says. When they get to the club, Agamjot Singh knocks ten bucks off the fare, and Phil gives it to him as a tip.  
  
“ _Wah guru ji ki fateh_ ,” Phil says.

  
“ _Rabb raakhaa_ , ”Agamjot replies, and touches his forehead.  
  
He hasn't used many of his foreign-language skills in a long time. It feels good, like he's competent. The bouncer eyeballs him a little; he has to drop Barton's name and pass the guy a fifty to get in, but once he's in, he realizes the place isn't thumping like before. Busy, but a different crowd, and he drifts along the back in the shadows, orders a highball of whiskey in the back corner of the bar.  
  
==========  
  
 _Jockey Full of Bourbon_ is seeping out of the speakers when Clint’s finally ready. It’s a Tuesday night so the cages are closed and the accent lights above them off, the usual weekend pro girls either working behind the long bar or avoiding work like the plague for the night. Nights like this they have the new talent come in and get some practice in front of a smaller, more intimate crowd while getting a feel for whether they’ll do well in the club; all it takes is a nod to Sam who’s working the door and a quick visit to McPherson in the back office to get his own slot for the night. The customers like the change of seeing a guy, and the new girls do well picking up a few tricks from him.  
  
Clint’s thankful they avoid the usual strip club feel and don’t have an actual stage; instead, there are poles mounted between the countertop and the high ceiling at regular intervals down the length of the extra-wide bar.  
Josh gives him a hard time as he sets Clint’s backpack under the bar, once again offering to give him his own locker in the changing room. But that would be a bit more permanency and possible security risk, so he declines once again.  
  
“Yeah, yeah. You just like having me to schlep all your shit around, Clint.”  
  
“But you do it so well,” he says with a wink before pulling his shades down over his eyes and hopping up to sit on the edge of the bar. Turning and standing up, Clint smiles at the whoops and whistles from nearby patrons who recognize him as nothing more than “that hot guy with the shades who dances here sometimes”.  
  
His favorite ratty jeans slung low, barely kept up with a red-brown leather belt, and his most wicked smile are the only thing he’s wearing as he prowls to the corner of the bar top and the pole there.  
  
Clint eyes it for a second, then looks down at the curvy redhead that’s perched on her barstool right in front of his bare feet and licks his lips, makes a point of staring right down her cleavage before springing up off the balls of his feet to grab high above his head and start spinning around the pole, pulling himself higher up it with each pass.  
  
 _“Bloody fingers on a purple knife and a flamingo drinking from a cocktail glass. I'm on the lawn with someone else's wife, come admire the view from up on top of the mast....”_  
  
==========  
  
Phil recognizes the rock-cum-jazz style of Tom Wait’s music as he watches Barton slither up the pole. The clientele looks different – slightly older, less of the rabid clubbing type and a little more sedate. There's a blond guy looking at Barton at the opposite end of the bar; Phil doesn't like the way he's staring greedily, but there's nothing to be done about that. He settles back in the corner, feigning disinterest.  
  
Near the top of the pole, Barton turns upside-down, legs splayed, then wraps one calf around the pole. It's incredible, watching the flex of arms and belly and back. Phil slides out of his jacket and lays it on the table where he can keep an eye on it, and settles back in his chair to watch.  
  
 _"To the carnival is what she said, a hundred dollars makes it dark inside..."_  
  
He wonders if Barton's thinking of the circus, doing this, if he even did acrobatics when he was a kid. Those jeans are barely around his hips again, and the bruise Phil left him with weeks ago is long gone. He wishes it weren't.  
  
==========  
  
It’s easier to grip the pole when he’s in shorts, his bare skin against cold metal. Clint loosens just enough to slide back down a straight eight feet until his nose is just inches from the wood of the bar and he’s facing back toward Josh who is giving him a bemused look.  
  
Holding the pole tight he lets his legs fall open into the splits, cartwheeling to the side and standing back up. The redhead has been joined by a blond hunk who could easily pass as Thor’s little brother; Clint moves behind the pole with a spin and flourish, crouching to give the newcomer a broad grin before scaling back towards the ceiling again.  
  
The song finishes out and fades into another jazz piece, this one a bit slower with a slide guitar and brushes on drums.  
Another thread of stress unravels from around him and he smiles.  
  
==========  
  
The whiskey is good, peaty and smoky, and Phil loosens his tie slightly. A brunette comes to his table, a little rough-looking but not bad, except that she must be pushing 40 and is dressed like she's twenty.  
  
“Mind if I sit down?” she asks.  
  
“Actually, someone's sitting there,” he says.  
  
“Haven't seen anyone but you sit here since you came in.”  
  
He flicks his eyes to Barton and then back with a tight little smile.  
  
“Oh, honey, I can make a straight man of you.”  
  
“No thank you,” he says again. This time there's an edge.  
  
She opens her mouth to speak again, and he gives her a look, then flicks his fingers in a shooing motion. She pouts and saunters away, but Phil has a feeling she'll be back. He watches Barton working the pole – it's not right, what he's able to do – and sips his whiskey, wondering if Barton knows he's here or not.  
  
==========  
  
Clint loses himself in the rhythm and moves, the twists and turns as he wraps himself around the pole, more limber and mellow by the moment. Usually he would take the time to play up the crowd and earn some tips; but this time it’s just about stretching muscle and bone to push his body to its limits.  
  
There’s a low whistle below him and Clint slides back down to find the redhead has moved on and the blond is now sitting in her place, staring at him with hooded eyes.  
  
“Quite a skill you got there, mate,” the man says, his voice drawling with a distinct Australian accent.  
  
“Yeah, well, keeps me happy,” he says vaguely. Gripping the pole he moves carefully until he’s able to hold his entire body up and parallel to the bar, then slowly twist up and hang vertically with his calves locked tight.  
  
The blond licks his lips and leans a bit closer across the bar, clearly showing his interest. It’s flattering, and in a way Clint enjoys it, but he can’t help the twinge of regret that Coulson didn’t follow him here. Or, for that matter, that he’d pointedly left his collar at home as an open invite; it might have hinted to his audience that he wasn’t available.  
  
“You dance here often, then?” the Aussie asks, hands spread across the bar top and head cocked to the side to watch Clint move.  
  
“Sometimes,” he replies, and pulls himself upright. Legs straight and toes pointed, body held vertical he spins around as he moves hand over hand till he’s in more open space well above everyone’s heads. It was the first hard trick he’d learned and still his favorite: invert and move to hold the pole tightly between his left arm and ribs, then slowly walk his feet down and let his body come horizontal to the bar, giving the flawless effect of him walking down an invisible wall. A simple trick, but it took ridiculous upper body strength to make realistic, and below him people started clapping quietly, clearly appreciating the effort it took.  
  
==========  
  
 _It's warm in here,_ Phil thinks, and no one can see him anyway. He's fairly sure Barton hasn't spotted him; there are people trickling in and out, a few on the dance floor moving to the slow hip-roll jazz. He takes out the cufflinks and tucks them into his shirt pocket, rolls up his sleeves and loosens his tie a fraction more before slouching in the chair.  
  
That's when he sees the blond leaning forward, talking to Barton with his hands on the bar like Jesus at the Last Supper. Phil wants to go over and knock some sense into him.  
  
It's a terrible idea; he didn't get where he is by being rash. Still, the forwardness galls him. He takes another sip of whiskey and watches Barton wall-walk down the pole, remembering two nights ago when Clint was wrapped around him like a python, squeezing with arms and thighs and a calf around his ass. Things the blond will never know.  
  
A waitress comes by with another glass of whiskey, one cube of ice floating in it, and he downs the last of the drink in his hand before giving the glass back with a smile and a twenty, then turns his attention back to Barton.  
The music picks up a little, faintly flamenco.  
  
 _"Darlin' close the door and turn out the light. Close the door and let me uncover you..."_  
  
He watches Barton shimmy around the pole, back shining with sweat, hair spiked with it. How long can he get away with sitting here?  
  
==========  
  
Clint finishes out the song with a slow inverted spiral down, thighs clenched tight around pole until he’s sprawled out on his back across the bar, sweaty and aching in the best of ways.  
  
“Well that was certainly impressive. You ever do private shows?”  
  
The pleasant hum of scattered applause and a couple whistles is broken by the sound of someone just a little too close, and Clint turns his head to see Hunky is leaning across the bar till he’s almost nose to nose with Clint.  
  
“Only for my boyfriend,” he says, lets his voice go a bit brusque as he sits up and jumps back behind the bar, cracking open the bottle of water Josh had left for him before heading to the opposite end of things to take care of customers.  
  
“Boyfriend, eh? Seems such a shame that he’d let you wander off by yourself...”  
  
Clint freezes and turns slowly to stare at him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch what you said,” he growls out, but the sudden change in tone is completely lost on the guy who sits up slowly and does what must be his best sexy face.  
  
“I mean, you’re a rather gorgeous bloke. So if your boyfriend can’t be bothered to keep an eye on you when you’re out here, well it can’t be all that serious. In which case there shouldn’t be any problem with me taking you out for dinner.” The guy is sitting there smiling as if he’s just offered the cure for cancer, and Clint  wants to deck the guy and let the bouncer toss him out for soliciting (because hell, paid hook-ups happen all the time around here, but you don’t fucking go to the person walking off the stage and ask for an easy fuck).  
  
There’s movement over the dude’s left shoulder and Clint tracks it-- only to find Phil watching him.  
  
 _Phil._  
  
He had followed him to the club. And now the bastard is sitting - no, _slouching_ \- low in a leather chair, knees spread what for him qualifies as obscenely wide, drink in hand. _Fuck_.  
  
==========  
  
Barton looks like he's on edge – the way he drops behind the bar when seconds ago he was stretched out flat and looking almost tired. The defensive turn of his head – Phil can't see his eyes, but he can imagine the flat look Barton must be giving the blond.  
He's clearly been propositioned, and Phil tenses a little, not because he thinks Barton might say yes but because he's ready to jump in if necessary. Not like Barton can't handle himself in a fight, but still.  
  
It's too far to hear what they're saying, and then Barton looks over and Phil doesn’t need eye contact through the sunglasses when he can feel Barton’s stare. Phil can see the twitch of his eyebrow, like he's surprised. He smiles a little but doesn't move from where he's relaxed in the chair, pleasantly buzzed on top-shelf whiskey.  
  
He slides a finger through the roller buckle of the collar and puts an elbow on the table, holds the collar from one finger and lets it dangle in invitation.  
  
==========  
  
“Sound good?”  
  
Clint’s eyes slide back from Phil to Blondie, and suddenly the answer is crystal clear.  
“Not interested,” he says bluntly, setting the bottle down and walking the few steps to the gap at the end of the bar.  
  
“Oh come on, I’ll make it worth your while,” and this time the idiot has the stupidity to actually step in front of Clint, deliberately blocking the easiest path between him and Phil.  
  
Clint stops and stare up at the guy who easily has four or five inches in height on him, giving him a look that had made even Tony Stark shut the fuck up.  
  
“You’re really not getting this, are ya, boy scout?” And that gets a sharp frown from the guy.  
  
Clint doesn’t wait for him to answer, ducking around him and heading towards the back of the room where Phil is sitting in half shadows. The shades get pulled off, and as he gets closer Clint can make out the rolled up sleeves and loosened tie, eyes darker than normal as he watches.  
  
“Listen, you don’t have to be a dick about it, mate. I’m just looking for someone to show a good time to tonight, ya know?”  
  
The asshole is following him, and if it weren’t for his laser-sharp focus on Coulson, Clint would probably stop and do something about it. As it is he really can’t give a damn the guy won’t take a hint because Phil is staring at him with a look that can only be described as hungry, and Clint’s fantasized for weeks about blowing him in his office chair, sprawled out just like that.  
  
He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t misstep, just keeps winding through the various people and tables until he’s directly in front of Phil and tosses his shades on top of the agent’s discarded jacket-- then promptly drops to kneel on the floor between his feet, forearms resting along the tops of his thighs and fingers just brushing the belt loops on Phil’s slacks.  
  
“I was wondering if you were going to come.”  
  
He takes the glass of whiskey off his dick and grins.  
  
“Took you long enough to notice.”  
  
In Phil’s peripheral the blond stares at them a little, lip curled, and then mutters something and turns on his heel. He looks down at Barton, kneeling between his thighs. There's a whistle off to his left and he ignores it, drapes the collar around neck and buckles it in front.  
  
Barton's staring up at him with that look again, and Phil takes his chin in hand. “Nice work,” he says, and Barton grins. “Good dancing, too.”  
  
“Thanks,” Clint says, turns his head and presses a kiss to the inside of Phil’s wrist before nipping at the tendons there. “You have any plans for the rest of the night?”  
  
The blond is staring at them from the bar with a baleful look and Phil stares back for a moment, then looks down and rakes his fingers through Clint’s short blond hair.  
  
“I was going to pick up some nice dancer at the bar and take him to a seedy motel,” he says. “Call me crazy.” He brushes his knuckles over the stubble on Clint’s cheek, then slides a finger under the collar and tugs.  
  
Clint’s head tilts back a little, baring his neck even more to Phil. There’s something to be said for the anonymity and the lack of super-powered roommates who are hard as hell to avoid.  “Dunno, I think I like your kind of crazy,” he says, letting his eyes narrow. “Question is, are you good for it?”  
  
Coulson takes a roll of twenties out of his pocket and grins at the blond, then blatantly counts them out and hands them over.  
  
Snickering at the obvious show of possessiveness, Clint rolls to his feet and tucks the roll of cash into his front pocket where it settles beside the visible ridge of his half-hard cock. “I’m gonna grab my bag and the rest of my clothes.”  
  
“Wait. Just take a break if you're tired. Theres plenty of time for you to play more.”  
  
Clint smirks at him again and takes the chair across the table; the waitress brings water and a Gray Goose moments later– “From Josh,” she says.  
  
“You don't want to go to a seedy motel _now_?”  
  
“It's not every day I get to watch you pole-dance. Enjoy your drink.”  
  
Raising his glass in toast, Clint takes a sip and sets it down on the table, then slouches a bit lower to match Coulson’s own posture. He glances around the room to find that Blondie finally backed off and is now perched at his spot back at the bar, pouting. Clint looks back at Phil and shakes his head.  
  
“So how long have you been here?”  
  
“Since you were staring down that redhead's shirt. Thinking of Natasha?”  
  
“No, not Natasha, she’s more subtle than that. I was just enjoying the scenery.” He grins and finishes off the Grey Goose, shivering as the ice cold vodka goes down.  
  
Barton almost looks cold – he probably is, now that he's not exerting himself and is sitting still, sweat-slick and shirtless. “Long enough to watch you handle the surfer guy.”  
  
“Aussie boy? He was just looking for the same as you, but not entirely convinced my alleged boyfriend would let me out to play on my own.” Clint gives him a pointed look. “Glad you were here to rescue me again; you know how I hate being a damsel in distress.”  
  
“Of course. What else am I here for? I'm sure you couldn't possibly have gotten rid of him without my help.” Phil sips at his whiskey, then looks over at him. The collar looks great on him, the leather set off by paler skin, hanging just above collarbone.  
“You are going to dance more, aren’t you?”  
  
Clint narrows his eyes and looks at Coulson hungrily. “You gonna make it worth my while?”  
  
The first time this had happened it had been viciously hard, fast, and filthy-dirty; and while he’s not opposed to either the first or the last, Clint is quickly warming to the idea of dragging this out for a while till they’re both a little crazy.  
  
“I did last time, didn't I?”  
  
He flicks his eyes up and down Barton's body, then reaches over and takes the empty vodka glass away. “Go on. I paid for a show.”  
  
“Yes sir,” Clint drawls, and stands up slowly, putting his glasses back on and tugging on the thighs of his jeans so they slide back down to the lowest point of his hips. Coulson doesn’t say anything, but Clint can feel him watching as he walks away, and he deliberately puts a bit of a roll in his hips with each step.  
  
Back at the bar things have quieted down a little; they’d put him on last tonight and most everyone has left for home, so he catches the DJ’s eye and gestures in the shape of an hourglass, the man smiling and nodding in recognition. Choosing not to borrow trouble he heads to the opposite end of the bar from Hunky and ducks behind it, climbing up on glossy wood top and sauntering towards the center pole as the music cues up. A sultry voice, the thump of an upright bass, and the sharp snap of fingers is all that accompanies Clint as he grabs the pole and spins around it slowly.  
  
 _“You had plenty of money back in 1922....”_  
  
Phil slides a little lower in his seat, finishes the last watered-down sip of his drink and crunches the sliver of ice. It's damn sexy, watching Clint move; the few patrons left are openly staring, including the blond. Barton's wrapped around the pole, first with arms and legs and then with just a calf, arched out until his head and one leg almost brush the bar.  
  
The bartender grabs a bottle and splashes a drizzle of grenadine on Barton's belly, grinning mischievously; Clint flinches when the cold syrup first hits his skin, but then deepens the arch of his back until the liquid runs up to the collar around his neck.  
  
 _Phil's going to lose his mind._  
  
==========  
  
Clint’s legs are burning with the tension it takes to hold this position, but he doesn’t let it show, just arches his back further until he can put his hands on the bar top behind him and settle into a flawless backbend. There’s a smattering of applause as he unhooks his knee from around the pole and pushes off from the bar, rolling back up the pole inch by inch.  
  
 _Knees, thighs, hips, stomach, chest..._  
Clint reaches up with one arm, looking over his shoulder at Coulson and smirks, twisting and writhing against the pole in rhythm with the music.  
  
Josh starting to mutter something is the only warning Clint gets before a strong hand wraps around his ankle and Clint looks down to see Aussie-boy is slipping his hand underneath his pants leg and pawing at his calf.  
  
“Thought you said you had a boyfriend, mate. If I’d known you were turning tricks I’d have offered my money up front.”  
  
A split second, and all of Clint’s training and instinct kick in at that quip, backed by just enough anger to make him slightly unprofessional.  
  
Josh is reaching across the bar to pull the guy back but Clint is faster, jerking his leg up and around so the idiot’s hand is pulled free; Blondie has clearly gone from cruising to drunk or stupid because he snarls a little and makes another grab which ends with Clint standing on his wrist to pin it to the bar.  
  
“The fuck did you just say to me?” He asks, voice gone cold and sharp.  
  
“I saw him pay you,” the Aussie says, teeth gritted. “Get off my arm!”  
  
Phil is out of his chair as soon as he sees the second grab; he only unrolls his sleeves and slides the jacket on. Barton can certainly handle the situation, but he’s not going to sit around and wait.  
  
“I don’t give a good goddamn what you think you saw, I already told you no.” Clint says with a snarl, shifting his weight further onto the guy’s wrist. If he’d been in his boots it would have worked well, but without the rough tread to give traction and some serious pain Blondie manages to wiggle free and takes a step back.  
  
“Listen here bitch,” he spits, pointing a finger up at Clint. “I don’t know what kind of fucked up game you’re running here, but I made you a damn good offer! And you go throw me over for that old tosser?!” Hunky scoffs in disgust.  
  
Phil chooses that moment to step in behind the man, voice carefully neutral. “Is there a problem here, _Aaron_?” It comes out directed at the blond, who turns a glare on Coulson.  
  
“I made an offer first!”  
  
“I don't think you did,” Phil says easily. The Aussie looks like he's going to throw a punch, and Phil puts on his flattest, mildest little  
smile. “I have a standing arrangement.”  
  
The blond seems to think about that for a second. Not long enough. Phil glances sidewise at Barton who's standing there with that intense, agitated look, then smiles back at the Aussie. “We'll be leaving now.”  
  
The guy blocks the way for a long moment, until Coulson wonders if he is going to throw a punch. Watching Barton with his hackles up is almost as good as watching him work the pole – he's more than capable of taking on Blondie and they both know it. Still, Phil likes to see him so restrained.  
  
The other man scoffs again, and moves aside.  
  
Clint watches him like the proverbial hawk, and after a moment Aussie takes the hint and moves further down the bar. It feels like all the stress and tension he’s just spent the last half hour sweating out of his body is back in full force; he’s half tempted to follow the asshole and start a fight just so he can bleed it all back out. But the whole damn bar is staring at them, and more than anything he’s ready to be gone. Dropping straight down off the bar and landing on the balls of his feet, Josh comes walking towards him holding out his bag, hoodie, and shoes.  
  
“Sorry about that. We’ll escort him out after you leave and make sure the bouncers know not to let him back in.”  
  
Pulling the hoodie over his head and stuffing his feet into his shoes, Clint nods his head in affirmation and slings the backpack over his shoulder. “Shit happens, no worries. Sorry for disturbing the peace.”  
  
Josh snorts and slaps him on the shoulder. “Not your fault, man. Just don’t go thinking you’ve worn out your welcome; I get some of my best tips when you dance.”  
  
Clint smiles honestly at that and shakes his head. “Yeah, yeah. Whatever man. See ya around,”  he says, and heads for the side door not looking to see if Phil is following.  
  
==========  
  
Phil follows him out; it's drizzling a little and he looks at the sky for a break in the clouds, but it's all uniform gray. Clint is already half a dozen steps ahead of him, and he moves quick to catch up. “I don't think your Aussie friend appreciated you turning him down,” he says as he pulls up alongside. “He looked disappointed when I counted out money.”  
  
The motel they stayed at last time is only a few blocks up; it was seedy and smelled like cigarettes, but at least it's out of the drizzling rain. Then again, they could call a cab and be back at the tower in no time. Or maybe just somewhere better.  
Truth be told, he's not even sure what's in Barton's head.  
  
Clint glares up at the rainclouds, completely unappreciative of the weather and hunkers down with his hands in his pockets, head shaking at Phil’s comment. “Dude just needs to learn some fucking respect.”  
  
Taking the alley back out to the street and they turn right, towards the hotel, dodging the worst of the puddles and wet trash along the way. They're within a block of the motel when an idea strikes Phil; he grabs Barton’s and wheels him around,  heads for 10th Avenue and steps out on the curb looking for a cab.  
  
“Wrong way,” he says to the confused look Clint gives him.  
  
“Don't like the no-tell motel?”  
  
“Not feeling it today,” Coulson says.  
  
“Then where are we going?”  
  
“You'll see.”  
  
It takes a few minutes; it's late, not bar-letting-out time but late enough on a Tuesday that there aren’t many in-service cabs. Clint rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet, sunglasses pushed up on his head so he can easily watch the movements of people around them. When a car finally pulls up in front of them and they climb in, Phil rattles off the address to the cabbie already knowing the fare's going to be ridiculous. He really doesn't care.  
  
Clint stares at him, then back out the window at the starburst blur of passing street lights. He wants to be annoyed at Coulson for the change of plans, but truth is it’s all just frustration that his night off had been disrupted; Clint didn’t often get down time. But it’s hardly Phil’s fault for what happened so there’s no reason to take it out on him.  
  
A solid fifteen minutes pass without a word being spoken between them, and he’s close to making a quip about taking the cab all the way to Jersey when they pull up to the curb in front of a long row of brownstones. Coulson passes the cabbie a fistful of bills and gets out, glancing back when Clint doesn’t immediately follow.  
  
“You coming?”  
  
Clint quirks an eyebrow but doesn’t answer, just grabs his bag off the floorboard and slides across the back seat after Phil. Hands in pockets, he glances up and down the empty but well-lit street; “Where the hell are we?” he asks, though there’s no venom in his voice.  
  
“Home.” He jogs up the steps, unlocks the door and holds it open. It's long habit to keep the place presentable for guests, although he's going to have to tidy up the bedroom.  
  
“Beers in the fridge,” he says, with a gesture. “Bottle opener's in the drawer right next to it. Make yourself at home, I’ll be right back.” He turns and heads up the stairs, leaving Clint standing alone in the foyer.  
  
For a moment he watches Coulson walk up the dark stairway to the second floor, surprised and off balance; it’s the first time he’s ever been to Phil’s place.  
  
There’s a temptation to follow him through the house, but it would be an admission of discomfort that Clint doesn’t feel like making right now. He’s fine with strange, new places-- hell, it’s part of his job. But let loose in Phil’s house for the first time without him there is oddly unsettling.  
  
At the top of the stairs Phil steps into his bedroom, throwing yesterday's socks in the hamper and closes the closet door on the lack of organization in there. Swiping the two T-shirts off the arm of the chair, he pushes it back against the corner with a foot and deposits the shirts in the hamper with the socks. The bed's made; not dusted, but it's hardly ornate and if Barton is checking his high horizontals, there's a problem.  
  
Downstairs Clint turns and looks around the living room, lights and shadows cutting crazy angles across the furniture from the street lamps outside, and he throws his bag on the floor by the coat closet door. There’s enough light to make his way through to the back of the room into the kitchen and from there it’s easy to see the refrigerator. He pulls a Sam Adams from the bottom shelf of the door and turns to find the bottle opener, but the light from the fridge hits the glass-front cabinet across the room that holds Phil’s rather impressive hard liquor collection.  
  
Shutting the door he pops the bottle top before ducking around the kitchen island to peruse the selection; the glasses have their own shelf, and he pulls a shot glass out and fills it with Gentleman Jack. The American top-shelf whiskey doesn’t even burn on the way down, but he chases it with the beer nonetheless, eyes closed and head thrown back.  
  
Coulson comes back down to see Barton doing a shot of something; he pads up behind him quietly. “I see you found the liquor cabinet.”  
  
Clint opens his eyes and tilts his chin down to look watch Coulson move past him. “Nice selection,” he says, voice raspy from his drink.  
  
“Thanks. While you're there, there are rocks glasses on the top shelf. Get me a shot of Bunnahabhain?” There's ice in the fridge and he grabs a cube, throws it in the glass that Barton sets on the bar.  
  
“Come on upstairs when you're done,” Coulson says lightly, and goes back up the steps.  
  
Clint puts the requested bottle of whisky beside Coulson’s glass and leans back against the granite countertop, pointedly taking a moment to drink most of his beer before pouring a good measure into Phil’s lowball. Boots kicked off at the foot of the stairs, Clint makes his way up to the second floor as quietly as Coulson had come down.  
  
The whole damn level has been converted into the master bedroom, save what must be the bathroom over in the corner, and Coulson is standing at the chest of drawers taking off his cufflinks and putting them in a shallow dish, backlit by the lamp on the night stand. There’s a huge wood four-post bed against the back wall that Clint blinks at in surprise, but he chooses not to say anything. He sets the drink in front of Phil then goes to perch on the arm of the large leather chair in the corner.  
  
“That's antique,” Phil points out, not even looking at him. “Strong, but still an antique. Also, I'm going to be sitting there.”  
He turns on the iPod dock on top of the dresser, setting the jazz playlist to random.  
  
Clint slides off the arm of the chair and moves to sitting on the foot of the bed, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.  
It’s weird to be here in Coulson’s bedroom in the middle of the night, beer in hand and no idea what Phil is thinking of; add it to the bullshit from earlier and he’s not really in a mood to sit here and chit-chat. Regardless, he takes a deep breath and forces his shoulder to drop and soften in some semblance of being relaxed.  
  
Phil sits down in the chair, loosens his tie a little more, hangs his jacket over one wing and cradles the low ball in one hand.  
Slouching a little more till he’s comfortable and able to rest the glass on one leg, he watches; Clint may come across as mellow where he’s sitting slumped forward, but Phil recognizes that line of tension still running through him.  
  
“I was thinking since our surfer friend sort of killed things at the club, maybe I could get a private show.” The uprights of his bed are bigger than a stripper pole, but that shouldn't stop Barton for too long. He's supple.  
  
Clint pauses, then finishes drinking from his beer, grimacing slightly. “Excuse me?” He’s not against the idea. Hell, he loves showing off for Coulson; but it’s out of left field to say the least.  
  
“Private show.” He says it slow, watching to see if Barton's put off by the request; he doesn't seem to be. “Bed's got long poles. Seems like a good opportunity.”  
  
He quirks an eyebrow at Phil, then turns his head to look at one of the bedposts in question. The warm light from the lamp isn’t quite enough to see exactly what type of wood it’s made out of, but as Clint runs his hand over it he can feel the dark wood has been sanded to a satin-slick finish and left unpainted. Leaning and putting some weight against the post, he’s surprised when it doesn’t budge; the damn thing doesn’t even creak when he leans harder in an attempt to shift it.  
  
While Clint prefers composite bows he’s learned plenty over the years about making his own, and can recognize exceptional woodcraft when it slaps him in the face; Coulson’s bed is a work of art. More than that, Clint’s brain is going into overdrive thinking of all the ways he could use it like a freaking jungle gym.  
  
“Nice piece,” he says casually, taking another drink from his beer. Coulson has the hint of a smug grin on his face that Clint just rolls his eyes at.   
Rubbing his thumb over his bottom lip, Clint looks back at the bed and considers his best options. He’d never done anything like a private show before, but now the opportunity presents itself and with it comes this warm, satisfying weight in the pit of his stomach; that slow build up that makes it all better.  
“You mind if I change the music up?” he asks.  
  
“Go right ahead.” Barton likes the bed, and Phil likes that. It had cost him a ridiculous amount of money but he'd been flush with cash and hell, he'd never had nice things before he retired, so he'd splurged. Barton looks like he wants to lick it.  
He shifts in the chair a little more, loosens his tie and takes another sip of his scotch. It's not exactly a nightclub; but there's low light, top-shelf booze, and an acrobatic pole dancer that he’s unofficially dating so he can hardly complain.  
  
Barton docks his own iPod, turns up the speakers and checks to make sure it's on, then throws a smirk. The song's nothing Phil's ever heard; it starts off like a CD skipping until the girl starts singing, low and somehow flat.  
  
 _“Twisted this feeling, warped out of shape. So tired of revealing the moves that I make.....”_  
  
Clint rolls his head and wills the tight muscles and tendons that run through his neck to release. The environment may be new and untested, but he trusts that Phil has his house more secure than some banks; it’s freeing, the thought that he doesn’t have to keep one eye open.  
  
He reaches for the hem of his shirt, moving to pull it off quickly – until he catches sight of how Coulson is watching him.  
  
The half-light from the single lamp combines with his adrenaline-lust blown pupils to make his eyes look almost ominous; Clint can _feel_ him staring, chin tilted down just slightly and mouth not quite pressed closed. The shirt is up to his ribs when Phil’s eyes slide back down to the bare skin and cut abs, his tongue wetting his bottom lip.  
  
Clint freezes, lets that heat and weight unfold even more through his stomach and chest, down the muscles of his thighs and up over the back of his shoulders, making him loose and turned on. Fingers curling deeper into the cotton, he drags the shirt over his head as if he’s got all the time in the world. The neck catches slightly on the collar he’d forgotten he was still wearing, making the ring jingle quietly.  
  
All Phil can do is _stare_. Granted, he's seen Barton naked. Seen him naked while they fought off hypothermia, seen him in the throes of orgasm, seen him wrapped around a stripper pole. This, though – it's almost like old-school burlesque, things barely hidden, teasing. Barton's nowhere near naked, still in jeans and that _fucking collar_ ; but the way he takes the shirt off sends a jolt right to Phil's groin.  
  
“I should've brought ones,” he says, a little thick.  
  
Barton gets this coquettish look – the eyeliner he put on before Cielo blurred out to a smoky, fetching dark -- and licks his lips deliberately.  
  
There’s something so-fucking-satisfying about hearing Coulson’s voice catch like that, just a bit lower and rough around the edges; it’s got Clint craving more already.  
  
“Don’t know, I’m sure you’ll think of some way to tip me.”  
  
“I'll bet I can.” He takes a sip of his scotch, making it last. “Give me a reason.”  
  
Clint chuckles. “Oh, I’ll give you more than that.”  
  
He pops the buckle on his belt, lets the leather slide through the clasp till it hangs open around his hips. It’ll make things a bit trickier seeing as his jeans like to ride a bit too low without it, but it’s worth the hassle if it’s one more way to get under Phil’s skin.  
Hand resting on waistband and thumb over the button, Clint leans back against the bedpost and reaches his right arm back over his shoulder,  hand wrapping around the post right behind his head.  
  
It’s tempting to keep going, that warmth turning to heat beneath his own skin and making him want to move; but he chose this song for a reason, and slows down to match the rhythm of the muted snare and bass. Head leaning back even further, he deliberately bares his throat to Phil.  
  
 _“Feeding the concept would drive me insane. The ash, the blood, the bone, the love..... twisted...”_  
  
The metal of the belt buckle is still slightly warm from his own body as Clint tugs on it slowly, pulling it free from his belt loops one at a time. He’s half tempted to toss it to Phil just to see his reaction (see what he’d do with it), but that would quickly deteriorate into nothing more than a good hard fuck; while Clint’s certainly not opposed to that, this is too good a chance to blow.  
  
He lets go of the buckle, the belt jerking free from the belt loops and falling to the floor with a quiet thump.  
  
When he said 'private show' he didn't quite have this in mind. Barton dancing in the club was sexy, more than a little trashy. This is just frankly erotic, the way he's wrapping around the bedpost. Phil almost wishes he were wearing more clothes.  
Barton shimmies his shoulders against the wood, and Phil takes another drink just to keep himself grounded. Bare skin and bared throat and he rests the sweating glass on one knee, uses his free hand to undo the knot of his tie so it's just draped around his neck.  
  
 _"But is this real?"_  
  
The music has a hypnotic drone to it, a muffled heartbeat. Barton looks like he's having the time of his life; he licks his lower lip slow and rolls his head back.  
Phil watches, keeps his breath steady with the rhythm of the drums and finally presses the heel of one hand against his dick, rubs down once and back up. Drags his hand away again and lifts the glass to his mouth and wishes he hadn't quit smoking twelve years ago.  
  
Turning around and placing a foot on the end of the bed, Clint reaches high and grabs the bedpost with both hands, wrapping one leg around it and sliding into a smooth downward spin. It’s easy and relaxed; no pressure to please the crowd or make a few bucks. He rolls his whole body upwards and pulls himself higher up till he's nearly at the ceiling and locks his legs before lying back to hang inverted, spine against the warm wood and head even with Coulson’s chest.  
He smirks and mouths the words quietly. _“And I know, yes I know, but is this real?”_  
  
It's not fair, the way he springs up that high and wraps around like a snake. Phil knows exactly how the post feels; Barton's been twisted around him like that, all hot strength. It's criminal.  
Barton rolls his belly and drops his arms so his fingers nearly brush the floor, then uses just his abs to pull himself back up and hangs from the canopy frame, legs dangling for a moment before he wraps one around the post and pushes his ass out.  
All Phil can do is watch; this kind of thing shouldn't be humanly possible. He finishes the whiskey in one go and sets the glass on the side table, never taking his eyes off Barton.  
  
Sweat starts to prickle over Clint’s skin and his hands start slipping so he slides down again, this time going till he’s on the floor. Hands and knees he crawls across the thick carpet and lets his shoulderblades roll, predatory and hungry. Phil goes motionless, watching him like a hawk as Clint moves towards him.  
When he’s close enough to touch, Clint slowly climbs into Coulson’s lap, practically grinding against his lap as he settles a knee on either side of his hips. A handful of unknotted tie in each hand, Clint pulls Phil closer till he can smell the scotch on his breath.  
“How’s this for a good reason?”  
  
Phil stares at him, then grabs hips and pulls him close, rough and fierce, and bites the side of his neck.  
“Fucking tease,” he growls, and slides a hand back to cup an asscheek, kneading. The roll of money is still in Barton's front pocket and he can feel it against his dick; the idea of paying for sex is still irrationally hot. He runs his other hand up bare back and hooks a finger around the collar, pulls it tight so Barton's head drops back and he wheezes, chest arched forward. The tie loosens around the back of his neck and he shifts his hips.  
  
“Fuck,” Clint gasps, eyes closed and fighting a shudder; his cock is hard and fucking uncomfortable, jeans too stiff. “Tease? All just part of the show.” He hadn’t expected Phil to grab him like this and he lets go completely of the tie, hands moving to the front of Phil’s shirt as he fights against the collar till he can look him in the eyes.  
“You do want a show, don’t ya mister?”  
  
“Of course I do.”  
He didn't realize this was what it was about, and lets go of collar, although he kneads asscheek twice more before he lets go.  
“Show me, boy.” Hands on hips and he grinds up against Barton's ass.  
  
Just then the last strains of music fade out, and Santigold’s “My Superman” starts seeping out of the speakers heavy and potent. Clint smirks; Coulson’s cock is hard and tenting out the front of his slacks, too damn tempting and Clint grinds down against it till he makes Phil groan.  
  
He doesn’t know how long he’s going to last, but he’ll push Coulson to his breaking point.  
  
Phil slides one hand up bare chest and pinches a nipple, makes Barton gasp and arch backward. Then he grabs hips, pulls him down tight, grinds up against him and pushes him away.  
“Lose the jeans,” he says, husky.  
  
“Lose the shirt,” Clint replies, sliding off Coulson’s lap to stand between his splayed knees. This time when his thumb moves across the copper button of his jeans, he slips behind the fabric and presses it open. Fingers tugging at the zipper, and he stares down at Coulson with half closed eyes, waiting for half a beat before pushing the denim down over hips bare hips.  
  
There's no reason to exert himself. He doesn't even twitch, just forces his hands to rest on the arms of the chair and watches Barton slither out of his jeans. He's commando, like usual, and twists his hips as he slides the fabric off.  
“I figure you can give me a hand,” he says, and grins.  
  
“Just a hand?” He asks even as he crouches and leans forward, flicking the first few buttons open before nuzzling at Phil’s bare chest. His skin is warm and smells like bay rum aftershave but tastes of sweat; Clint huffs in appreciation and follows the trail downwards as he keeps unbuttoning the shirt.  
  
He pushes it mostly off Phil’s shoulders and climbs back into his lap, hips moving serpentine with the music until his cock rubs against Coulson’s abs and makes him shudder. Clint nuzzles at the side of his neck and nips hard.  
“Better?”  
  
“Much.” He grabs hips again, stilling him, and drags a hand across chest; there's a sticky streak and he licks it, remembering the grenadine running up sternum. It's still faintly sweet, and Phil grins.  
It occurs to him in a flash, and he pulls the melting ice cube from his glass, rubs it over Barton's cock and makes him jerk.  
  
“Oh fuck, that’s mean,” Clint stutters, biting down on the inside of his cheek to keep from outright whimpering. Coulson just looks up at him with a devilish smile, then traces the ice over the faint red from the syrup and licks it clean.  
“Anything else down there you want a taste of?”  
  
“Maybe,” he says, and pushes Clint back to his feet so he can lean forward. Ice in his mouth and he sucks just the head in, rubs the ice against it to contrast the hot and cold. Barton bucks against him and Phil tightens his fingers into hips; it will bruise and he doesn't care. Barton's _his_.  
  
The sensation chases the words out of Clint’s mouth leaving little more than guttural sounds and desperation; one hand automatically goes to the back of Phil’s head and tugs him closer.  
But Coulson doesn’t move any closer, only grabs even harder at Clint’s hips to keep him from moving.  
  
Clint shudders and grits his teeth; it would be so easy to give in and beg for what he wants, beg Phil to suck him off until he comes in Phil’s mouth, taking him apart piece by piece.  
Maybe it’s that moment’s hesitation that Coulson senses, but he looks up with eyes narrowed and the corners of his mouth curling towards a smile; Clint’s come to know that look all too well, and he knows he’s about to lose this game.  
“Thought you still wanted a show,” he says, voice whiskey-rough and a little too fast as he lets go of Phil’s hair to push at his shoulder weakly, trying to put some distance between his aching dick and Coulson’s damn mouth.  
  
“Sure.” He grins, wipes his mouth with the back of a hand, sits back in the chair like he's got time to kill instead of a raging hard-on and a hard-bodied archer naked in front of him.  
What he wants is an excuse to jump Barton's bones but instead it seems they're both dragging this out, seeing who will give first. He wishes another drink. Instead, he looks expectantly at Clint.  
“So?”  
  
The satisfied almost-smack of his lips, the ridiculously relaxed postured; It’s a blatant challenge. Phil calling him out and practically daring Clint to do his worst. Well fuck, he’s never backed down from a challenge before, and that smug look Coulson has is almost enough to piss him off.  
  
He gives Phil his best “you know you want me” smirk, then drags the front of his body across Coulson’s as he climbs back onto his lap. Deliberately smearing spit and precum across Phil’s stomach gets a hiss of reaction, but Clint works to ignore it and tells himself this is just another op to keep his focus.

  
Hands tracing down Phil’s arms, Clint catches his wrists and pulls Phil’s hands back around till they’re cupping his ass, then starts rolling his hips from side to side like a bellydancer, eyes half closed as he watches for a reaction. Coulson doesn’t disappoint, growling and grabbing tight to knead the muscles beneath his hands. It frees Clint’s hands to rest on the back of the chair and push his ass farther out, knees as wide as the chair will allow as he leans in to nuzzle and lick the spot beneath Phil’s ear.  
  
“Huh,” he huffs, trying not to let the strain creep into his voice. It's not working very well. “Does this cost extra?”  
He squeezes one asscheek and rubs a fingertip against hole; Barton jerks against him and he manages a little chuckle. He's never had a lapdance quite like this before, someone naked and gyrating this close. He's not sure what to do with it – too many options, not enough blood up north, but the slick on his belly is maddening and something has  to give because the tongue behind his ear is _killing_ him.  
  
He hooks a finger through the collar again, yanks him down and growls against ear. “Lube in the top nightstand drawer. Bring it over here and ride me.”  
  
“ _That’s_ gonna cost you extra, mister,” Clint replies without missing a beat, mouth brushing against Coulson’s ear. It earns him a slap on the ass and a hand around the back of his neck, forcing him still so Phil can return the favor.  
  
“Oh, I’m good for it. But you’d better stop fucking around before I choose a different way to make you shut up.”  
  
Clint can’t help but close his eyes as Coulson speaks; his hand sliding down further till fingers drag over Clint’s hole and trace around the base of his balls, making Clint shudder and arch back. He stops, pulls his hand back abruptly and giving Clint another solid smack. “Now.”  
  
“Yes, _sir_ ,” Clint says.  
  
He doesn’t waste any time, climbs off Coulson’s lap and walks across the room to the nightstand, knowing  it’s a damn good view. Hips go loose and swaying, moving with that shit-hot swagger which for the longest time made Coulson watch for just a second longer than was appropriate; nowadays he outright stares when no one is around, pinning Clint face-first to the nearest stable surface to paw and knead till he begs.  
  
It’s insane that no one else has said or seen anything since they came home that first morning and Tony offered to make him a new collar. They tried to keep it professional and stick to Clint’s suite, but there wasn’t much to be done when he walked into the kitchen at 5 a.m. and was surprised to discover that wearing nothing but sweatpants was a surefire way to get a blowjob up against the pantry door.  
  
It’s not necessary to bend over to dig through the nightstand drawer but he does it anyway, taking his sweet time to pull out the bottle of lube before closing the drawer. When he turns around Coulson’s watching with one hand on the arm of his chair and the other pressing hard against the front of his pants.  
  
Clint Barton is a goddamned work of art, and it's obvious he doesn't care who knows it. Showing off at the bar, ass in the air as he spends entirely too long in the nightstand. It's frustrating to stay where he is, but entirely worth it; Phil is hard enough he has to bite his tongue to hold back the noise when he rubs himself.  
Barton's _sashaying_ back and Phil hardly notices until he stops.  
  
“See something you like?”  
  
“Get your ass over here.” It's gritted out, rougher than he wants to sound; Barton just smirks, rubs a hand over his ribs and sighs like he's got all the time in the world.  
  
There's a pouty lip-bite when Barton hands over the bottle.  Phil gets the cap between his teeth and opens it, gets some on fingers just as Barton climbs back into his lap.  
  
Coulson barely gives Clint enough time to kneel straddling his lap before he’s reaching between Clint’s thighs and pushing one incredibly slick finger into his ass.  
  
Clint whimpers and grabs Phil’s shoulders because he can’t stop himself from moving, any surprise or discomfort completely overruled by sheer fucking desperation to feel Phil inside him any way he can. In the past with others he’d been all about taking turns - but Coulson felt better, fit better and filled him up more than anyone else. Made him greedy to the point of being obscene, and he loved every second of it.  
  
Another finger and there’s a hand around his cock; he looks down to find Coulson watching him, black-eyed stare and hungry as he strokes Clint’s cock in rough counter-point. His stomach clenches and he can already feel his balls getting tighter as he starts curling towards coming.  
  
“Fuck me now. _Please_ ,” he gasps, giving up on winning this round because he wants this too damn much to care.  
  
“Shit,” Phil hisses; he wanted to maybe drag it out more but he's losing cohesion. Instead he sinks his teeth into shoulder and pulls his fingers out, opens his belt and exhales when cool air hits his cock. One hand goes automatically to a hip, the other holding himself steady because Barton's squirming in his lap. Clint's eyes are dark, all pupil in the lamplight, jaw half-open and watching him because this, after too godddamn long, is the best thing either of them has ever found.  
  
“Ride it,” he whispers, and Barton obligingly settles slightly on him, folded up so close he's damn near got knees in Phil's armpits.  
The arch in his back should be illegal, the way he tucks his head back like he can see what he's doing. The little strangled whimper through the nose when he takes another inch, the way his forehead scrunches while he breathes and ripples and slides down more.  
  
Phil lets go of his cock, wraps his arm around Barton's ribs and pants. “Fucking do it,” Barton hisses, and he bucks up and gets a thin little noise.  
  
Clint leans forward, forehead nearly pressing against Phil’s, gasping and trying to breathe around the overwhelming fullness of Phil pushing his cock in that last inch. It feels like he’s in Clint’s stomach, feels like he can’t even move because he’s folded in half and impaled. Almost too much to take, as if he’s being split in two; but he takes it because he wants it, needs this twisted release and Phil is the only person who can wring it out of him so exquisitely.  
  
Beneath him Coulson grits his teeth, every muscle tense as he fights to keep himself buried balls-deep inside Clint, not moving till he’s ready. There’s a bead of sweat skimming down the side of his face, and Clint finds enough coherency to lick it up as it tracks over the stubble on Phil’s jaw.  
  
“Barton.” It comes out as a harsh growl, a warning, a plea. Clint manages a ghost of a smirk at the sound and the satisfaction of splintering Phil’s cool.  
  
“Something you want, mister?” he asks, planting his feet and bowing forward till he can move in an achingly slow, steady, upward slide.  
  
Phil grabs ribs, not caring how badly bruised Barton's going to come out of this, and lifts. Holds him steady for a moment, eyes closed while he tries to get some semblance of control and stop his breath hitching.  
  
Barton rolls his hips and Phil shudders under him, pulls him down hard.  
  
“You know exactly what I want,” he snarls, and bites down into the meat of Barton's shoulder again. There's another trickle of sweat, the back of his neck this time, and his nose is filled with the smell of fading cologne, sweat and whiskey and the musky fug of sex.  Clint grunts in pain, hand automatically going to the back of Phil’s head, fingers in hair and tugging him in closer to keep his mouth pressed tight against his shoulder.  
  
Phil keeps his hands around Clint’s ribs, thumbs and fingertips digging into tender intercostal tissue like he can somehow get claws in. Barton's chest is heaving hard in an attempt to get more air.  
  
Clint knows what he wants, what they both want; how Coulson wants to take him apart with bare hands and sharp teeth till he’s stripped down to muscle and bone. This time he doesn't have to move at all; Phil slides him up, bucks into him on the downstroke.  
  
There’s no way he can keep up, can barely move in this position. He grabs the back of the chair with both hands and lets his body melt, lets Phil fuck up into him so damn hard his teeth snap together. This close, the head of his cock is rubbing against Coulson’s stomach, sliding through the mess of sweat and precum way too easily and dragging him closer to the edge. Half a dozen rough thrusts later he can’t take it and grabs his dick, starts stroking it rough and just as fast as Phil is fucking him.  
“Don’t stop. _Fuck_.” Head rolled back and his vision starts blurring at the edges. “Don’t fucking stop.”  
  
It's agonizing to let go but he does, just enough to swat Barton's hand away. “Don't fucking touch,” he pants. “Want you to come, just like this.” He bites throat this time, trying for low enough it won't show much. He doesn't really care at this point.  
  
Phil’s biceps are burning but it only takes three more strokes, hearing the wild little noises Barton's trying to muffle, to get back where he was. Barton's scrabbling at him, nails in a shoulder and his back, writhing against belly as much as he can.  
He groans, hoarse and strangled, not caring how tight his jaw is clenching when he seizes up and loses it, moving Clint’s hips around just right to make it last.  
  
“Please. _Fuck, please_!” He’s begging and stuttering because he can feel Coulson coming inside him. Hot slick making it even easier to move, and Clint’s howling in frustration as he presses his knees to the back of the chair for leverage. Completely overrun with an atavistic need for more friction, more pressure to the point he’s sobbing with desperation for that last bit of something so he can finally get off.  
  
 _“Mine.”_  
  
The word echoes in his ear in counterpoint to sudden sharp teeth cutting into his bottom lip, and it feels like a vise in the pit of his stomach as the muscles ripple and clamp down so hard it’s nauseating. The sensation is ripped out of him and as the first white splatter hits Coulson’s chest, Clint feels like his back is going to break in half.  
  
Coulson fucks him through it, doesn’t let him feel or think or see or know anything but the heavy fullness of his dick. Clint holds on to the chair, to Phil, and yells himself hoarse as his whole body shatters and vision grays out. He comes to with ears ringing and a throat raw; the leftover shudders still wracking through his body and leaving him sprawled bonelessly over Phil, not even caring about the sloppy mess sticking them together.  
  
Phil is just trying to breathe, to get his throat – so dry it's cracking – wet with spit that isn't there for a long moment. But Clint's deadweight against him, pinning him to the chair in a bizarrely pleasant way; he can't move, and it's a strange pleasure-pain the way Clint's still squeezing around cock, not quite in rhythm with breath or heart.  
  
He wraps arms around ribs, too limp to squeeze tightly, and takes a deep breath, clears his throat.  
“Was that all I get for the two hundred, or can we go again in the morning?”  
  
Clint’s chuckle comes out more as a whine. He shifts in an attempt to get more comfortable in the oversized chair, but only succeeds in making Phil’s cock pull partially out and turning his whine into a moan.  
“As long as morning isn’t until after 11am, I’m good.”  
Pushing up slowly on still-trembling arms, he meets Phil’s eyes and gives him a ragged but content smile. “Technically that was my first lap dance, but I’m pretty damn sure that’s not how they’re supposed to go.”  
  
He heaves out a long breath, not quite willing to get up yet, and just looks at him for a long moment, the way the eyeliner's gone softer, how Clint's gone softer in his arms. Phil frowns and shakes his head seriously at the assessment.  
“Oh … it seemed fine to me,” he says. “Good technique.”  
  
“Not sure that’s an entirely unbiased assessment, sir.” Clint kisses Phil slow and deep, tongue grazing his teeth as he savors the moment. Coulson’s hands wrap around his hips in response and make him stifle a moan when his fingers press into the bruises in Clint’s skin.  
  
They stay still, limbs tangled up, until Phil and his legs are about to fall asleep. “Come on,” he grumbles. “Shower. We're both a mess.”  
  
Clint protests a bit and Phil wraps arms around him tight, slides awkwardly out of the chair until he can stand up and set him down. His trousers are going to fall off, and he grabs waistband and belt to keep them up and puts his other hand on Clint's back.  
  
“Come on. It's a nice shower.”  
  
It's twice the shower he needs; two shower heads, a tiled bench, a ridiculous amount of room. But when they're in the bathroom Clint takes a breath and looks impressed, moving a little more eagerly to get in.  
  
“Collar,” Phil reminds him.. “Don't want Stark having to make another.”  
  
Clint reaches to take it off, then stops. “Would you...” he scrubs a hand through his hair and looks up, feels himself blush with awkwardness. “Would you take it off?”  
  
“Yeah.” It's ridiculously cute how he blushes, and Phil strips off his trousers and drapes them on the counter, then unbuckles the leather and tosses it over too. “There.”  
  
It probably shouldn't be like this; it's a necklace, that's all, not something Barton can't take off by himself. But still, the idea that he won't is entrancing. As if, just  for once, he's actually obeying some kind of order without bitching and moaning. Phil toes off his socks, leaves them on the bathmat and turns on both shower heads.  
  
“Go on. Let's get cleaned up.” He smacks an asscheek gently.  
  
Clint flips him the bird before stepping in and moving to the farthest shower head. Still too warm, Clint ducks under the hot water anyway, letting it rinse away the stickiness and soothe his aching muscles.  
  
“I’m gonna head back up to the tower tonight, see if I can get a couple hours sleep.” Coulson hasn’t implied that Clint’s welcome to stay, but more than that he knows that he wouldn’t get any rest here. When he’s on a mission he can sleep damn near anywhere or anyhow necessary; but more than a cat nap in a civilian setting and he’s wired the whole night, every sense cranked to eleven. He needs his own bed, his own place to get any rest.  
  
“You can sleep here, if you want. I understand if you'd rather go back.” He scrubs the slick from his chest and belly, and he hands over the unused shower puff. “Here.”  
  
“Thanks.” Clint rubs soap into it and starts scrubbing down. “Need to go back, I’m not going to be able to sleep here. No offense.”  
  
“None taken.” He'd rather pass out, but after all he dragged Barton here; he should at least have the courtesy to drive him home.  
  
Clint rinses the soap off and reaches past Phil to hang the sponge on the shower rack, brushing a kiss over his shoulder in the process. “Thank you,” he says, smiling slightly, a hand on Phil’s hip before moving out of the shower and grabbing a towel off the rack. “I’m gonna get dressed and call a cab.”  
  
“I'll drive you back. I'm not that shitty of a host.” He finishes with a scrub of shampoo through his hair, rinses and shuts it off. “At least everyone at the tower should be asleep. Stark might be up, but he'd be in the lab.”  
  
“You don't have to, there are cabs.”  
  
“I know. I'd like to, though.”  
  
Barton looks at him, towel over his head in mid-rub. “If you don't mind--” he says almost bashfully, awkward with appreciation for Coulson taking care of him outside of a mission.  
  
“Not at all.”  
  
==========  
  
They dress in the half-light of Coulson’s bedroom, unconsciously gravitating close enough to brush against each other from time to time. The years of working together have developed a rhythm to their movements around each other that neither of them realized were in perfect counterpoint to the other’s actions. Phil tosses Clint a clean tshirt who catches it with his right hand, his left grabbing Phil’s own discarded shirt off the floor and throwing it back. When he goes to put on his tie, Clint has already double-checked his shoulder holster and is holding it up so Phil can slide into it easily.  
  
It’s not until Coulson is leading the way back down stairs that it occurs to Clint just how long they’ve had such a close dynamic; this is just the culmination of countless missions and operations together. At the bottom of the staircase Phil stops, and somewhere between the pole dancing, sex, and epiphanies about his partner Clint has become ridiculously pliant and trusting because he almost walks into Phil’s back.  
  
“Sorry,” he mumbles, hand on Coulson’s shoulder to keep from stumbling. Coulson doesn’t say anything, just gives him a half smile and watches him till Clint starts to get a little confused. “What, something on my face?”  
  
Phil smiles. “Shoes,” he says, and nudges Clint’s boots with the toe of his loafer.  
  
“Oh, guess those would be important,” Clint says, flopping down on the bottom step to pull them on.  
  
“Goon.” He rubs a hand over his face; it's late and he just wants to fall into bed. Preferably with Barton. At least traffic won't be terrible this time of night.  
  
Barton doesn't seem to have any idea what he does to Phil; he's just innocent in a way that's refreshingly un-calculated.  
“I might end up passing out on Stark's couch,” he says. He's certainly capable of sleeping anywhere – lightly, but sleeping nonetheless.  
  
“Really I can just call a cab,” Clint offers again because it’s the right thing to do-- never mind that it’s the last thing he wants to do.  
  
“Nonsense.”  
  
Clint knows that the smile he’s giving Phil right now is a bit ridiculous; he’s tired and happy, and really doesn’t give a damn. Holding a hand out for Coulson to pull him to his feet Clint briefly considers pulling him down onto his lap, but considering how tired they both are (and the fact they’d just end up sleeping on the floor or something) he just lets Phil pull him to his feet. Wrapping an arm under his coat, around his waist, Clint pulls him close and kisses him deeply. Nothing rushed this time, just a slow melt against each other of wetness, mouths, teeth, and bruised lips until they’re both starting to breathe hard again.  
“We should probably get going.”  
  
“Yeah.” It's almost a struggle to disentangle himself, but he grabs his keys off the table and pulls on a coat. He knows better than to ask Barton to stay.  
  
Instead, they head to the car. They're not even through the tunnel when Phil looks over and Barton's got his head wedged between door and headrest, dead to the world. It's flattering, really, that Barton will sleep in his car; it's a statement of trust Phil thinks is richly undeserved. He yawns, turns the radio on low to keep himself awake, and drives.  
Barton's half-awake when he pulls into the parking garage.  
  
“Come on, we're here,” he says, and Clint looks at him muzzily. It's a far cry from how he normally wakes up – ready for anything.  
  
“You gonna walk me to my door?”  
  
He shouldn't; he should boot Barton from the car and head home. Instead, he nods and pulls into a parking space. “The things I do for you,” he says.  
  
Clint stretches and lets the hem of his shirt ride up across his stomach, watching as Coulson’s eyes are automatically drawn and his hand visibly twitches. “At least the benefits package is good,” he says with a smug smile, utterly relaxed and content for the first time in days.  
  
Coulson rolls his eyes and gets out of the car. “Come on, ‘benefits’,” he says, making Clint laugh as he follows him to the elevators, leaning a shoulder comfortably against Phil’s as the doors close. They’ve made a point to keep their contact to a minimum around the others, always carefully meeting in Clint’s room or even Coulson’s office where the locked door and vent access make privacy a guarantee. But it’s three in the morning and Clint can’t be bothered to be overly cautious in case Thor is wandering around looking for a midnight snack or something.  
  
They stop on the 181st floor where the various separate bedrooms were; Clint leads the way to his room, humming a tune under his breath as he scans his palm print and answers to JARVIS’ request for voice identification.  
Behind him there’s a muffled chuckle and he turns to see Coulson giving him a funny look.  
“What? What’d I do now?” Clint asks quietly, stepping backwards into his room and setting down his backpack before leaning on the doorframe.  
  
“Nothing. Thought I heard Stark or something.”  
It's a little awkward, like he should give Barton a kiss goodnight or something. And then Barton leans against the door with that sultry look he does, and he's fucking humming that song now– the one he started off stripping to --and Coulson shakes his head.  
  
“You're irredeemable, you know that? You're going to wake people up.”  
  
“So shut me up.”  
  
He grabs Phil's tie, yanks him close and there's no point in resisting; he crushes his mouth against Barton's and pins him to the door for just a moment before they slide backward into the room, Barton pulling him in and kicking his backpack in with them. The door closes, latches.  
  
At the far end of the hall stands Steve in boxers and his replica PT shirt, staring in stunned silence.  
  
==========  
  
Clint wakes to the sound of rain on his window and enjoys it for several minutes. Then he remembers that this is Stark Tower, and that a hurricane would be hard pressed to make enough noise to rattle the windows. Hand scrubbing across his face he realizes the sound is actually coming from his bathroom, and _oh_. Coulson.  
  
He smiles knowingly and stretches hard enough to crack his back before crawling from beneath the covers. Clint’s clothes are still strewn about the bedroom floor whereas Phil’s are laid across the back of the desk chair; he shuffles past and snags a pair of pajama pants out of the drawer and pulls them on.  
  
“Hey! I’m gonna go grab some coffee, be right back!” He yells at the bathroom door before leaving the room. It’s still early, the sun not yet above New York’s concrete horizon as he shuffles down the hallway towards the kitchen, still scratching his belly and yawning. They’d both been exhausted the night before, but still managed a 5-minute quickie before passing out wrapped around each other. It was a bit surprising to Clint just how well it had worked out; they’d never actually slept _together_ before last night. But apparently they were well ensconced in each other’s mental “safe-zone,” because they’d both been out cold for several hours.  
  
Natasha is leaning against the kitchen counter when he walked in, sipping on a large glass of something thick and green. Across from her Steve has his head tipped back finishing his own similar drink, but as soon as he sees Clint he freezes and blushes collar-to-hairline.

  
“Umm. Mornin’,” he says uneasily, looking over at Natasha, then back at Clint. Steve sets his glass down on the counter and wipes his hands on sweatpants, then gives a funny little half-wave before stepping away from them. “I should go clean up. Thank for the PT, Natasha. You all... uh. Have a good morning.”  
  
He quick-foots it out of the room, leaving Clint to stare in confusion at his retreating form until Natasha throws a stray potholder at his head.  
  
“What was that for?” he asks, as much about the potholder as Steve.  
  
She rolls her eyes and chuggs the last of her smoothie before gathering Steve’s glass and taking it along with hers to the sink. “Barton, do me a favor?” She says, rinsing the glasses before putting them in the dishwasher.  
  
“What’s that?”  
  
“Try to keep your escapades away from the Captain’s delicate sensibilities. I hate having my morning sparring lesson replaced with heart-to-heart talks about Coulson getting yanked into your room by his tie.”  
  
 _“What?”_  
  
Still half asleep, he stares in confusion at Natasha as she saunters out of the kitchen, leaving him to wonder just what the hell-  
  
“Son of a bitch!” He shrieks after a moment, clarity hitting him like a solid uppercut to the jaw.  
  
“Excuse me?”  
  
Clint whirls around at the sound of Phil’s voice directly behind him.  
  
“What?!”  
  
“Did Ms. Romanoff do something in particular to inspire such an outburst, or is this just your typical articulate commentary?” Phil asks, stepping around Clint and heading toward the coffee pot. He’s already dressed without a thread out of place and his ‘Agent Coulson’ persona on full-blast.  
  
“Uh,” is the only thing he can manage, lacking caffeine as he is. “I think we got busted by Captain America.”

**Author's Note:**

> I thought writing cage dancing was challenging in “Billy Idol Baby”. Turns it is nothing compared to trying to describe in writing the acrobatics of pole dancing. Seriously, it’s freaking ridiculous. -Vamp
> 
> Natasha’s Ducati 1199 Paginale: http://www.asphaltandrubber.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/11/2012-Ducati-1199-Panigale-20.jpg
> 
> Tony’s 1939 Bugatti Type 57: http://www.classycars.org/Bugatti/Bugatti.T57.pebble.706.jpg
> 
> Pretty much all of the reference for Clint’s moves pole dancing skills from the awesome Evgeny Greshilov, and his “Slow Dancing in a Burning Room” routine: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=roOpKsflY2I
> 
> Those of you who have read this first story in this series, Billy Idol Baby, will be familiar with “Liam” as the dancer whose video on Youtube inspired much of Clint’s dancing. We decided to pay homage to him in this story by using his name, though his appearance and accent are based on Liam Hemsworth, Chris Hemsworth's little brother.  
> http://img2.timeinc.net/people/i/2011/database/111031/liam-hemsworth-300.jpg
> 
> Coulson’s bed: http://i00.i.aliimg.com/photo/v0/106691642/Classic_four_poster_beds.jpg
> 
> That moment when Clint leans back against the bedpost and bares hit throat to Phil was totally inspired by the panel on the right: http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lnbfkhlkoC1qd9idgo1_500.png
> 
> “...black-eyed stare and hungry.” -Thanks to Andrew Scott for inspiration http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tC7CvZFgFu0
> 
> Comments, kudos, constructive criticism, and encouragement are the best ways you can thank and support all fanfiction authors. Please take a minute to share your thoughts! 
> 
> ==========
> 
> Playlist:  
> “What Goes Around (Peet Remix)” by Justin Timberlake - what Clint is listening to on his iPod when leaving Avengers Tower  
> “Jockey Full of Bourbon” by Tom Waits - playing when Clint starts dancing  
> “Close the Door” by Spencer Day - the second song Clint dances to; when we meet Liam  
> “Why Don’t You Do Right?” by Amy Irving - third song dances to, from after finding Coulson in the club  
> “Is This Real?” by Lisa Hall - the song Clint plays at Coulson’s house  
> “My Superman” by Santigold - the second song Clint plays at Coulson’s house


End file.
